Just Her Luck
by ShogunOfSweets
Summary: During an otherwise routine reporting gig, Rochelle is soon caught in the midst of the initial outbreak. She manages to escape and meets a fellow survivor, and she can't believe her luck. Until she finds out that the survivor is a gambling conman who is only in it for himself and any possible reward.


_AN: I rushed this, but it's been festering in my documents for months now so I finally decided to just publish it._

_Thanks goes to my betas Zoey Overbeck and Lost Lantean._

* * *

This was number two on the list of things she never expected to happen. Number one was getting that promotion she had always dreamed about.

That morning had started like any other. She went through the usual routine: hop out of bed and shake awake her grumbling co-worker over in the next bed, smiling brightly and going on about getting ready for yet another sunny day with the sick patients at the medical center. She took over the bathroom again, spending most of her time under the scalding hot water in the shower, hissing as cool air drifted over her skin when she emerged. Her co-worker knocked impatiently, and she smiled sweetly into the older woman's annoyed face as she finally opened the door.

Tying up her coiled hair into its usual bun, Rochelle did a brief once-over as she passed the mirror in their hotel room. Though the pink _Depeche Mode_ was almost as old as she was, she still wore it dutifully, partly from her adoration of the band, and partly because she just liked the way it fitted her petite form. They soon exited the dingy Savannah hotel, trekking the short distance to the medical center they were assigned to. She had heard about the Green Flu previously, and even though they were assured it wasn't anything to be overly concerned about, they were still advised to practice caution around the patients.

She set up the production equipment, humming the tune to _One Caress_ as she worked. Her co-worker stood aways in front, her mic clasped loosely in her hands, and Rochelle gave her a quick thumbs up as the cameras began rolling.

The day had started like any other.

Only when the patients, rotting and bloody, starting attacking the news crew did she realize that something was indeed very, very wrong. And it wasn't until her co-worker tried to eat her that she finally started to fight back. And it was only until her co-worker tried to eat her, did she finally start to fight back.

* * *

Rochelle ran as far as she could, her leg muscles burning and screaming at her to stop. Those... things ran faster though, and she found herself beating back the stray shambling bodies with the crowbar she picked up. She gritted her teeth each time the sound of crunching bone and splattered blood met her ears.

She wanted to stop, get her bearings, think over the situation logically and work out a solution. An approach she had always used to tackle any problem. But what was happening around her defied all logic.

Most of all, she just wanted to get back home.

Her mother had passed long ago, and Rochelle found herself strangely grateful that the woman didn't have to experience this horror. She inherited the house, and wished she was back there now, soaking in a tub washing away all this blood and grit. Instead she was creeping through back alleys, stuck in a town she didn't know how to navigate, and surrounded by deranged flesh eaters. This day went to hell all too quickly.

As Rochelle passed a ruined liquor store, she heard a brief rummaging from inside. She was prepared to ignore the store altogether, not yet ready to face whatever was inside again, but a clinking sound gave her pause.

That was the sound a cash register made when it opened. Did those things even know how to do manual work?

Maybe... someone was in there! Someone who was properly alive, for once. Hope wrestled with the fear in her gut, and she stood in front of the broken door, hesitating. She desperately wanted to see another human, another person, talking and... _normal_. She couldn't imagine going another block on her own, alone only with the occasional stumbling zombies and her increasingly depressing thoughts. She would go crazy.

Her hope won over the fear, and she crept inside the liquor store, carefully stepping over the busted door. It was pitch black inside, the air heavy and stiff, and she wished she at least had a flashlight. But farther ahead was light, filtering in from the broken windows. And framed in that light was a form, hunched over the front counter. She couldn't hear the heavy breathing that usually accompanied a zombie, but gripped her weapon tighter nonetheless. As she neared, she could make out the back of the figure, and it looked to be covered in a dingy white suit. Her brows furrowed. Bad day to be caught wearing a heavy suit.

As she neared, she still couldn't tell whether the figure was alive or one of those things. Sometimes, when it seemed they weren't aware of her, the zombies would hover over a non-descript area or even sit down on the ground. These gestures unnerved her to no end; it gave the monsters a human quality, as if they could still be saved.

She hoped that this mystery person would prove otherwise, but she was prepared for the worst.

Gripping the crowbar with both hands, she crept closer to the figure, until she could hear his shallow breathing. He was still rummaging over the counter, and she readied the crowbar in case he attacked. Her booted foot stepped on what sounded like a bag of chips, and she instinctively raised her weapon in response.

The figure whirled around, an object clutched in its raised hand, and she brought the crowbar down.

"Shit!" The figure just barely dodged as the impact of the crowbar burst the glass counter, and in the next instant she was forcibly turned around and shoved against a nearby wall, her arm twisted behind her back. A cold sensation was pressed against her cheek, and it quickly dawned on her that she was soon looking into the barrel of a gun.

She was 99.9% sure that zombies didn't use guns.

"H-hey! You really don't need to use that thing. See?" She tried wiggling out of his grip unsuccessfully, attempting to crane neck to get a better look at the person behind her. "I'm perfectly harmless!"

"Yeah? It sure didn't look that way when you were that crowbar at me," the person, a man, said in a gruff voice.

She would've slapped her forehead in frustration if her arms were free. Duh, Rochelle! How could she make a case of her innocence when she did nearly knock his head off?

"I thought you were a _zombie_, for god's sake! Could you blame me?"

"Yes."

Just her luck, the only human she's seen for blocks turns to conveintly be a trigger happy smartass. "Whatever, this really isn't important. For now though, can you please get that gun out of my face?"

The man didn't act immediately, though the gun wavered at her cheek. His hands were uncomfortably clenched around her wrists, and she wished that he would just let up already.

Finally, slowly, he pulled the gun away from her face and let her go. When she turned to get a good look at this unscrupulous stranger for the first time, she didn't miss the way his grey eyes leisurely scanned her from head to toe. She sighed internally, resisting the urge to roll her eyes at him.

"Know that the only reason I didn't shoot you was because it would've brought more of those slimy bastards back. Count yourself lucky, sweetheart."

What an insufferable ass. She couldn't believe her luck, indeed.

She rested a manicured hand on her hip as she looked into his sharp green eyes, then to the pistol in his hand that was aimed loosely at the ground, and then finally her gaze shifted to the empty cash register and the objects that were littered about the counter. It all clicked into place finally.

"Wait a doggone minute: it's the zombie apocalypse out there, and you're lootin' liquor stores?"

He scoffed, facing her fully as he lowered the pistol and dug his hands into his coat pockets. "Sweetheart, you nearly knocked my head off, and you're worried about me doing something illegal?"

"That was an accident I said!," she retorted, eying the green bills that bunched up from his pocket. She opened her mouth to question him again, but stopped when he suddenly raised the pistol at her.

What in the-

The sound of the gunshot rang in her ears, and a melody of curses fell from her lips as she ducked, waiting for a bullet that didn't come. She glanced up to find him staring behind her, smoke trickling from the barrel of the pistol, and she twisted around.

Just inches behind her loomed a single zombie, its gaping mouth rotten and putrid as blood slid from the hole in its head. The body collapsed to its torn knees, and it soon fell face forward, unmoving.

She turned back to the man in the dingy white suit, surprised to find him nearly out of the store. She jogged up to him as he gunned down any stray zombies in his path. "Hey. Thanks."

He eyed her from the side, and nodded shortly. "Don't mention it. But, ah... is there a reason you're trotting along after me?"

Rochelle inclined her head, mildly surprised by his bluntness. She shook her head then. "Believe me, if I had the choice, I wouldn't be tagging along with someone who loots during a crisis. But there's strength in numbers, right?"

He exhaled harshly, and she realized he was chuckling, if a bit bitterly. "I wouldn't call it looting exactly. It's a free-for-all out here, and I'll take what I can get. And besides," he turned to her fully, the mirth fading from his features. "_I_ don't need anyone else's help."

She stared at him blankly. "Oh, is that so?"

"Yeah."

"Really?"

"Really."

The pronged edge of her crowbar collided into the skull of a zombie that had silently crept behind the man, and he dove out of the way, cursing as blood splattered onto his suit.

"Dammit! Do you have any idea how much this suit costs?"

"Well, it sure ain't worth much now," Rochelle commented, planting a hand on her hip as she surveyed the man. "And you're welcome, Mr. 'I don't need anyone's help.'"

His expression softened for the briefest of seconds, the look in his eyes a mix of gratitude and surprise. Rochelle didn't understand why he seemed to be taken aback; it was as if he hasn't been expecting her to help him so readily. He quickly regained his composure, and the focused glint returned to his eyes as he gunned down a shrieking zombie near her. She quickly glanced behind her, watching as its body crumpled to the ground, and turned back to him. She smiled in brief thanks, and as the horde closed upon them, she swung the crowbar as if her life depended on it. Well, technically it did.

He glanced down at the shriveled body, and looked at the bloodied crowbar in her hands. She caught his hard gaze, and raised her eyebrows challengingly. He sighed, and his shoulders slumped as if in defeat. He opened his mouth to speak but paused as the wretched sound of a growing horde pressed upon them. She clenched the crowbar tighter, her fingers aching from the pressure. That was the exact sound she heard right before the entire news crew was decimated. She escaped that time, but just barely. Could she escape this time?

Rochelle glanced at the man, and found that he was watching her with a knowing expression, as if he had heard the sound many times over already. She briefly wondered if he was on his own for long since this whole nightmare started, and if he really expected to brave it all by himself.

But as she looked at him now, she could see him inching closer to her, his eyes darting between her and the oncoming horde. And in that moment, by some unspoken bond, she knew that they were a team. For how long though, it didn't really matter.

He fired the pistol, his aim precise, as she cleaved through the rush of bodies. A unfamiliar feeling surged through her body as she moved, her skin seeming to tingle with electricity and excitement, her muscles on fire. In this moment, she felt powerful as the monsters fell before her, as if she could do anything. It was a different effect of the adrenaline. Before, when all the chaos and destruction first caught her in its crossfire, she had only wanted to escape. But it was clear that escape wasn't the option that would guarantee her survival.

She needed to fight back.

Her gut twisted as blood spilt over her skin, hot and sticky, and she shivered when she felt their hands clawing at her back. This was not how she imagined her day panning out.

She whipped around madly, swinging at whatever moved, but found herself getting overwhelmed. The energy seemed to seep from her bones, and just lifting the crowbar became an exercise within itself. The adrenaline's effects were wearing off. But what finally did her in, what finally halted her movement for the briefest of seconds, was catching a glimpse of the man in the suit, his back to her as he retreated away from the horde.

No... _NO!_

She thought they were a team. He wouldn't... how could he just leave her like this? How could he leave her to die? Did he lose his humanity just as these _creatures_ had?

For just a glimpse, so short that she could have imagined it, she saw those grey eyes slide back to her, locking with her own desperate and fearful gaze. And just like that, he turned away and all she could see was the grimy spots on the back of his once white suit.

She didn't realize she was screaming as she stared after him, but he didn't turn around. A howl of frustration tore from her throat as clawed fingers clutched at her crowbar, slowing down her momentum. Fear welled in her gut as she felt their grimy hands touching her arms, her throat, and her face, and she closed her eyes shut, trying to rip the crowbar back from their outstretched hands.

_Crack._

The pressure lessened suddenly, and she released a breath she didn't realize she was holding. She couldn't feel them clawing at her back any longer, and they stopped trying to grab her crowbar, instead focusing on a new target somewhere behind her. She quickly regained her composure, and pooled all of her remaining strength into those last few swings, her weapon crashing into the skull of any lumbering zombies, and didn't stop until there was nothing left to hit.

Her shoulders slumped, and she looked around as she tried to catch her breath. Her muscles burned, and the crowbar felt like laden weight in her hands. Decimated bodies littered the sidewalk, and she turned her nose up at the rotting smell rising from the still corpses. She peered at her crowbar as dark blood dripped from rusty metal, and looked away quickly. It was still hard to imagine that only seconds before she was bashing their skulls in, their very bodies twisted beneath her feet.

She looked down the path of the sidewalk, past the stretching pile of bodies, and her gaze fell upon the man in the dingy white suit. His stance was relaxed, as if he specialized in gunning down zombies, and he slowly lowered his gun arm. She realized that he had been the reason the horde around her had lessened, and looked closer at the fallen zombies near her. And sure enough, bullet holes littered their bodies.

The bastard came back.

He was reloading the pistol, his eyes drawn down to observe his work, and she gingerly stepped over the bodies, crossing the small distance between them.

"You came back," she breathed, looking at him in a new light.

The man didn't look at her. He scratched at the stubble on his chin as he exhaled quietly. "Hard to believe that I still have a conscience. What a bitch."

"Yeah, they suck don't they?" The corners of her lips lifted in a bemused smile. "I don't know how you manage dealing with it, but I sure am grateful."

He met her eyes finally, and he looked as if he wanted to smile. But he simply raised his full eyebrows at her, before turning away to observe the carnage.

It was at that moment that she heard the most gut-twisting, fear inducing sound that ever befell her ears since this hellish day began. She took several steps back as she tried to figure out where the noise was coming from, when the man's stranged screams sounded. Rochelle couldn't, didn't want, to believe what she was seeing.

The man's pistol dropped to the concrete with a weak clatter as he was knocked to the ground, a hooded _beast _tearing at him, that awful growling snarl mixing with the man's shrieks.

Fear threatened to paralyze her at that very moment. Her legs were rooted to the ground and her hands shook, as all she could so was watch in shock and horror.

But an image of just moments ago flashed across her mind; of the man helping her through the worst of the horde, the barrel of his pistol smoking as he stood amidst the sea of bodies and limbs. He came back for her. And he deserved to have the favor returned.

Rochelle scrambled forward, snatching up the pistol as she ran to the man and the hooded monster attacking him. She aimed, her eyes closing despite herself, and her fingers smashed against the trigger repeatedly. She lost count of how many times she shot at the beast, but soon the pad of her index finger was sore and the gun made a clicking noise when she pulled the trigger again. Out of ammo.

But luckily, miraculously, the growling of the hooded monster could no longer be heard, and its body drooped down as the man made a disgusted noise, standing up shakily. He limped toward her, his suit sporting fresh scratches and blood marks, but he held her gaze nonetheless.

She rushed to him, wrapping her arm around him for support despite his strong protests, but he soon let himself rest against her form.

"We need to get you patched up, but I don't see a hospital or anything around her."

"I don't think you'd want to go into a hospital right now, sweetheart," he remarked, scanning the area. "But I heard there was an evac station near the local high school. There should be some medical supplies."

She nodded, her features set in determination. "Good idea, suit. We can make it there."

He didn't respond, and she looked up at him, surprised to find his gaze intent and focused on her face. His lips were set in a tight line, but his brows scrunched together, as if he wanted to say something but was mulling his options over.

"What is it?"

The man shook his head, and gave the smallest of smiles as he looked away. "Nothin.' Just... thank you."

"No problem. I'm sure you would do the same thing for me," she said, beaming at him, daring him to say otherwise. He did toss her a doubtful look, but soon nodded.

"My name's Rochelle. I think we make a good team. Don't you think so?" she remarked offhandedly.

He eyed her for a considerate amount of time, as if he were weighing his options, and she nudged him gently with her elbow. Finally he sighed.

"Yeah, I suppose you have your uses. You're not completely terrible with that crowbar, for example."

She breathed out a laugh as if hand gripped her shoulder for support. "Gee, thanks for the support. It's not like I saved your ass from that hipster zombie or anything."

"Don't mention it, sweetheart."

She shook her head, smiling slightly.

Insufferable and crooked as this man was, she was grateful nonetheless that he was willing to work with her.

"You didn't tell me your name yet, you know" she said, resting the crowbar against her free shoulder.

He turned to the road, his eyes grazing across the ruined landscape. "It's Nick. Just Nick. But I'm not too keen on this team thing, so I hope I won't be hearing you scream my name when you need help every five seconds." Nick faced away from her then, coughing shallowly. "Though I'd like to hear you screaming it in _other_ circumstances," he added in a quieter tone that he knew she wouldn't hear:

"What was that?"

"Nothin,' sweetheart. Let's just keep moving."

She cocked an eyebrow, before shrugging. "Alrighty then. But just so you know: I won't be calling you for any kind of help. Plan on that."

He grinned slyly. "Wanna bet?"

Nick turned to her then, and she didn't find herself completely displeased at the sudden mischievous glint in his eyes. He patted his coat pocket, where he had stashed the money from earlier.

He was dead serious. The shady feeling she has gotten from him earlier had returned. So not only was her new traveling companion a looter, but a gambler as well.

"Wait a minute, what do you plan on doing with that stuff you looted?" she asked, suspicion prevalent in her tone.

"'Recovered,' you mean."

She inclined her head and gave him the most effective _'bullshit'_ expression she could muster, and he shrugged. "I figure once this mess is all over, people are gonna be in need. And they will be willing to get any kind of supplies, even if it isn't free. That's where I can capitalize."

Her jaw dropped. "You can't be serious."

"Why wouldn't I be? A man's gotta make a living, Sweetheart."

Earlier, she had wished to meet someone, anyone who was alive and willing to fight with her. She couldn't believe her luck when she got saddled with a criminal. She began debating whether it would actually be better to go off on her own, when she heard a groaning sound from nearby. Goosebumps rose on her skin, and she took a step back as she observed the area.

Her gut twisted at the thought of doing this again so soon. Of bringing the crowbar down into the skulls of those things. And remembering that they had been just like her at one point: thinking, breathing, talking, feeling. They were a mockery of human life, and a sick feeling pooled in her stomach when she realized that this was a nightmare she couldn't wake up from.

She felt a brush of skin against her own, and looked back to see Nick tapping her arm. He quickly detached from her, albeit shakily, and picked up a nearby plank of wood that was placed haphazardly on the ground. His eyes were narrowed, his lips set in a firm line, and he nodded at her as the groaning sounds soon turned to shrieks.

Maybe... she wouldn't have to go through this nightmare on her own. Though she heavily questioned the background of her new companion, and wondered what his day job had been before the zombie apocalypse, she surprisingly found herself willing to trust him. And from the way he mirrored his movements after her own, prepared for the next attack, he seemed to do the same for the time being. After all, they had only each other to rely on in this mess.


End file.
